For a moment, Vincent felt himself get caught in a lie and he reddened a touch. He’d never actually expected Cass to ask about the quidditch match tomorrow, much less delve into the topic. In all truth, the Slytherin hated quidditch. He hated everything about flying and brooms and… being off the ground. The only reason he went along to matches really was to watch Cass and make sure the Gryffindor didn’t kill himself, even if it killed him to watch. (In fact, half the time Vincent watched the game through his fingers, focusing only on Cass and trying not to see those nasty bludgers careen at his friend.) “I like… all the teams,” he tried, fruitlessly.

For six years, Vincent had managed to hide from Cass the fact that he hated Quidditch and was terrified of flying. He knew now, as he wracked his brain for a team name - any team name - that he was finally at the end of that rope and the thought of disappointing the other made him flounder. Vince didn’t want to be the reason that Cass made that face again! He made a half ditch attempt to pull a team name from thin air. “The Scarecrows, from Munstershire,” he said, matter-of-factly. Then, peeking at Cass out of the corner of his eye, he tried to keep a straight face and failed spectacularly.

At risk of betraying himself with a laugh, Vincent sat up abruptly and dug around through the bag just beside Cass’ bed. He pulled out a great tomb entitled The Complete Works of William Shakespeare and settled back into his spot, beaming all the while. “I make no such promises,” he replied, eagerly flipping through the many tagged and annotated pages. The irony of his last name was not lost on Vincent, even as he distastefully flipped past Othello. He’d once read the entirely of the play to Cass. They’d discussed it at some length, that afternoon on the grounds, and frankly… other than teasing Cass by calling him Cassio for a good afternoon, it was a play that Vincent would rather forget. He appreciated the memory though, and having shared the damned thing with Cass. It made the whole ordeal less… irritating, he supposed.

Finally flipping through to the exact page he was looking for, Vincent ran his fingers gently across the text. He had in fact flipped right to the sonnets, knowing full well that he wanted nothing more than to babble sweet nothings at Cass in wonderfully riddled olde English. He turned an impish grin upon the other. “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” He asked, teasingly. For a moment he wondered if Cassian would recognize the sonnet. It was doubtful, but he opted for another in case.

“When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state,” Vince started. He gazed intently at the text. “And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, And look upon myself and curse my fate…” It really was an apt sonnet. It was one Vincent often contemplated on his own, enough so that he had memorized it. “…Featured like him, like him with friends possessed, Desiring this man’s art and that man’s scope,” he looked up from the page and recited the remainder from memory. “…For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings, That then I scorn to change my state with kings.”

Vincent grinned, even as the last of it floated easily in the quiet silence between them. The rain continued to patter peacefully outside bringing in the scent of damp earth through the window. He didn’t dare say much else, choosing instead to turn his head just slightly and gaze at Cassian in profile. They were rather close, all things considered, enough that he was sure Cass could feel a warm breath on his cheek. Vincent held his breath and waited for the other to say something.

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